User blog comment:Brigadier Barty/Mossflower Country & Beyond/@comment-2246928-20140724190409/@comment-2246928-20140802143607

Just as the crew began relaxing, a fleshy crunch pervades the clearing. Argo gulps. "Sounds like somebeast just broke a bone now..." Vemrin hoists his longbow up, fitting an arrow to the string. A bad-tempered scowl was on the ferret's features. "Bloody sick of this isle." he muttered darkly. A scratching, like that of many tiny paws over the branches above, slithers itself into the already nervous corsairs' ears. Grayclaw clutches a cleaver to her chest, and Argo draws his new glaive as others follow their example, looking breathlessly up at the gently rustling foliage, waiting on every sound. Then, just as Vemrin spits and raises the longbow up, a voice is heard. "Ye do not like our wine, ztrangerzzz?" The voice is a soft hiss, a menacing, predatorial whisper drifting from the trees.